


Run

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Captivity, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Slash, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Merlin tries to escape. A tiny prequel to 'Runaway'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Runaway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/315537) by [wangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler). 



> Based on this exchange in the story:
> 
> _But the boy remains where he stands, straightening and giving Arthur a long, calculating look. “You don’t know who I am?” he asks._  
>  Arthur scrambles to remember every playmate and hunting partner his father ever briefly foisted on him in an attempt to regulate his upbringing. “Am I meant to?”  
> “Perhaps not,” the boy says, sounding oddly disappointed.

The day he’s going to be put in the silver cuffs, Merlin tries to run away.

He’s been in enchanted iron chains for the first few days of his captivity. They’re effective, but too risky to be the only restraints used to bind a sorcerer. The silver will pierce his earlobes, mould itself seamlessly around his ankles, giving his captors complete control over him. Trap his magic within him like a dam holding back a river, and there’ll be no way, none at all, to free himself then. They’ll always find him.

His iron collar is still around his neck when he breaks free from the guards escorting him from the King’s chambers back to the dungeons, and runs. It’ll be simple enough for the Druids to get it off, for even Merlin himself to do so, perhaps, because his magic is stronger, stronger than the one that binds the chain about his throat. But he’s half-starved, fatigued by maltreatment and too little sleep, wearing pain like a second skin.

He nearly stumbles over his own feet at first, and rights himself with a desperate twist, ducking under the massive arm of the guard who tries to grab him.

 _Weave. Weave! Don’t give them a target._ These are moves he’s planned carefully, thought through in advance because he’d known that thinking of strategies would be impossible once his feet were running. 

An arrow whistles past his ear. Heavy feet are thundering behind him. They’re big, strong, but he’s much lighter, much quicker, much more prepared for the escape than the somewhat slow-witted guards, chosen for their brawn rather than their ability to think on their feet. They’re no knights.

He turns a corner just as the blade of a knife strikes the wall beside him with a metallic shriek. His breath’s like bits of broken glass inside him, hurting desperately with every inhale and exhale, but he can’t stop now.

He ducks into a smaller corridor, keeps running, half-falls down a flight of stairs, nearly sobbing now with the need to breathe properly. It’s market day and most of the servants aren’t around, but there could be other guards, there could be anyone, he could die any second, he _will_ die if he doesn’t stop.

 _Hide. Find a place to hide._

He staggers through the next door he sees, black spots behind his eyes, sweat dripping into them. Later, he’ll recall how the wood had felt ornate under his clawing fingers, as though carved with some intricate design.

He falls to his hands and knees on the floor, eyes and nose and lungs burning; gasping, he takes in breath after breath, greedy for it, and nothing else matters at the moment. (Later, he’ll remember how soft the carpeted floor had been beneath his palms and knees.)

When his body stops shuddering, he looks up and, through the curtain of his hair, sees the boy who’s been sitting on the window-sill, unmoving, frozen with astonishment at the sudden intrusion. The sunlight is too bright on his golden hair, hurting Merlin’s eyes.

Merlin knows who he is. Everyone knows who he is.

Prince Arthur springs to his feet at last, an open book sliding from his lap. 

Merlin looks around wildly. The only avenues of escape are the door behind him—the stomping of boots already beginning to resound from afar—and the window behind Arthur’s back.

Arthur’s eyes are on his collar, on the length of chain still between his wrists.

And then there’s a blade at Merlin’s throat, its tip grazing his iron collar with a sound like a soft musical note. 

‘Lost your way, did you?’ Arthur says, his face blank. 

‘No,’ Merlin snaps. ‘I like to stumble into princes’ rooms on purpose.’

Arthur’s lip quirks for the barest hint of a moment. ‘These aren’t my chambers. They were my mother’s.’

 _Ah._ That would explain the lack of guards in this part of the castle, the musty redolence of the air.

Merlin, still on all fours, grabs the booted foot in front of him with both hands, and pulls it upward as hard as he can.

Arthur goes down with a sharp cry, his sword-point nicking Merlin’s cheek. He recovers from the fall almost before he’s hit the floor, kicking out at Merlin, his foot glancing off Merlin’s jaw, making his head snap to the side.

Merlin lands on his back and rolls, twisting away as Arthur flings himself on him. A muscled arm grabs Merlin around the waist, hauling him into Arthur’s body, and he finds himself pinned beneath the bigger boy’s weight.

‘Guards!’ Arthur shouts, barely even sounding out of breath.

 

\--

 

Later, back in the dungeon, he tries to take his mind off the fresh welts on his back by wondering if Arthur is just as much a captive as he is. If he’ll even remember the nameless boy he’s just sent to his death.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [bohemiabythesea](http://bohemiabythesea.livejournal.com) for whacking this with her beta stick!


End file.
